If ever we run low on those bandaids we place over that cracking windshield we call meaning, we might do well to leave untouched that most broken of its concepts – love. We know too much not to think ourselves unreasonable for attempting to win against one of the greatest impediments to reason, itself.

Love is unfortunately real. Love is coincidentally, chaotically, comically real. Love is, for some of us, once or twice, a great fork in the road. Would you prefer to keep your eyes or your tongue?

Let it be that we knew nothing about love. Let it frustrate us that the thing we really love has nothing to do with the thing we reasonably hoped we ought to try and love. Let them hurt now, those premises we speak to move us closer to greater potential happiness in the future, in place of that happiness refracted in our eyes, now.

What torture, to discover such tragedy on both sides of a decision all of our very own design!

Never let reason attempt to justify pure chaos. Reason, true to its name, will fail that test every time.

Love is not reason. It never was.

Love is a poor worm, cut into as many pieces as it can withstand, surviving voicelessly its own impaling. How many of us are drawn most strongly to a real, drowning, freshly-tortured heart – only to pretend there’s nothing torturing it that we can’t escape?

Shall I distance myself from love if it means I correct yet another broken love story?

If ever that tradeoff proves fair, then life truly is meaningless – and yet what natural feelings dance about!

Love hurts most when we forget where we’ve left it. Let us pick up some piece of that broken puzzle, if only in spite of that lie that reality is, itself, so unshattered.

I understand what love is. It’s not a current. It’s not what distanced you from the shore. It’s not the wave that overtook you, rising tall over your struggling body. It wasn’t the cold nor the warmth after – not the scent of your past, nor the brush of a mysterious creature about your leg. Love is the whole ocean.

It formed around you – clung to you. And even as you washed yourself of its memory, you drew from yet another of its ancient fountains.